sunbeams and a shitshow

I haven’t written much recently and I think it’s because I am grade-A ~stressed~.  Don’t tell Chris that I have not a single page of the new chapter for my thesis and I still haven’t submitted my grad school applications.  I fell asleep on the couch last night in protest of the work I intended to do after dinner.  Woke up around 8:15pm confused about what day it was, moved to my bed, and laid there for two hours unable to sleep because all I could think about was the work I have successfully put off for three weeks now.  To say I am royally fucked is the understatement of the week.

But life is not all stressful, there are moments when I am entirely present, thinking about nothing but what’s in front of me.  Today I was blessed with a meditative moment like that, and I didn’t even try.  Contributing to the underlying stress about not having enough time in the day to do e v e r y t h i n g is my weekend job at Saddleback Mountain.  I teach three different groups of skiers that meet each week on Saturdays and Sundays.  As someone relatively experienced in group management and outdoor education, I could tell this week is the week that makes or breaks a group.  I’ve never taught a program like this, but in the outdoor ed world we talk about “Golden Hour.”  Golden Hour is the first bit of time you have with your group that is crucial to building culture, laying ground rules, and adjusting expectations. Golden Hour is relational to the total amount of time spent with the group, hence why I figured this week would be the conclusion of it and when we would hit our groove.  We are three weeks in and so the kids have all met each other and as a teacher you have worked to make them feel like they are part of a team all working together to get better at skiing.

On the face of it, my morning group had kind of a shitty lesson.  The goals of this session were to try something new, stretch our comfort zone, and soak it all up. We didn’t get a ton of instruction in for a number of reasons.  We started with a warm-up run, then they wanted to summit the mountain, then an emotional breakdown in which I had to hike up the steepest pitch of the trail, then we finally got to the trail in which I would give them new skills and on the way I instructed them to go play in the powder.  One girl, not more than 50 pounds, tweaked her hip coming out of the powder and still another girl was entirely unconfident in her own skills and side slipped down a mogul trail.  Oh, and the rest of the group witnessed me radio for ski patrol to come toboggan a skier not much older than them down the mountain.  Through all of this, though, there were smiles, a desire to help the people around them, and a willingness to get out of their comfort zone.

By the end of the lesson, I had sent one girl to ski patrol with a pain in her hip (she probably just needed her mom and a cup of hot cocoa), dragged a thirteen year old girl down a trail she didn’t think she could do, and witnessed six young kids come out of a cloud on top of the mountain (and on top of their own little world). 

Today was the day it clicked for me.  The intangible reasons for why I am an outdoor educator came into focus when I taught the kids a word they probably will forget. 

“The fancy word for sunbeams are crepuscular rays.” 

They are beautiful when they catch you off guard, and most of the time they do.  Today the kids told me they landed in heaven when they got off the lift.  That is why I teach.  I don’t care how good they are at skiing.  I don’t care what kind of skis they have or the goggles they wear.  I don’t care.  If they can feel like they’ve arrived in heaven together, then I have done my job.  If they are kind and save gummy bears for their teammate in ski patrol, I’ve done something right.  If they are supportive and high-five their teammate who did the most challenging trail she’s ever done, I have won the lottery.  Kids don’t care about being the best at skiing, not really anyway.  Their best days are spent with each other, laughing about me farting four times a day, whispering in Ski School about how to slaughter a cow, getting to heaven with a picture to show for it, and being supported in trying something new.

I ran into the thirteen year old later in the day and she thanked me.  It was the kind of thank-you that catches you off guard. She really meant it and I remember why I teach.  They need someone to believe in them.